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Tuesday, 1 August 2017

Chronicles of a Middle Aged Vampire - Part 35

So that is how I ended up sitting in one of the city's most distinguished and pricey restaurants with a neolithic dame, an amorous dwarf, and a gawky geek. All vampires, and all slurping up oysters on the half-shell which I personally abhor, and drinking pissy French wine; so I ordered Lobster Mornay...and champagne,

I must admit the conversation was fascinating! Specially though the haze of gilded bubbles from that bubbly ticking my nose...

"But you must understand! I was the avatar of the Goddess! I dispensed justice, and justice was death. The fact that these necessary acts also benefited me is beside the point!"

"I just ask if you wouldn't have been so quick to hand down death-sentences if you DIDN'T benefit!"

"That is beneath you!" Mama Lema's monumental frame quivered with righteous indignation. "And insulting to me, as High Priestess of the Lady!"

Dr Al dabbed at some oyster-juice on his chin. "I meant neither disrespect nor insult: It was a logical question, and a valid one, I think. Perhaps subconsciously..."

"Subconsciously? Subconsciously my left tit! In all my life I have never come across this mythological entity. The subconscious is just something you blame for shit you want to do, but don't have the fortitude to admit to!"

"Mama, as a doctor..." Al said, and was rudely interrupted.

"I'm telling you the truth. People these last century and a half have been waffling around spouting about "awareness" and "conscience" and "social awareness"? It's all crap! I've never seen such selfishness or self-absorption in 10.000 years."

"I don't agree! Look at the degree of poverty, hunger..."

"Hunger my fat twat! And poverty is relative. All things are relative, and if you look at it in a framework of 10.000 years, you will see that never before have so many people had so much to eat, and so many possessions."

I took another sip of that liquid icy gold, and let that delicious shivery sensation skitter up my spine. I was on my way to tipsy in one hell of a hurry.

Donny just served himself another half dozen oysters and calmly sucked up that salty snot as if it was ambrosia.

"I must say," I slurred slightly, "You have a very modern and pragmatic view...I wouldn't have expected it of a lady of your...antiquity."

Mama Lema slammed her fist down on the table and bellowed a laugh, sending the rest of the well-bred patrician patrons of the restaurant into polite and very discreet hysterics. The Maitre'd wrung his elegant hands in despair, and stepped closer to our table, but did not dare by gesture or word to even imply censure of our majestic dinner companion.

"Antiquity!" She laughed and laughed, her massive shoulders quivering. "Antiquity!" She winked at Dr. Al. "This girl has sass! I like her! You'd better get a move on and nail that juicy tushie before someone else gets in ahead of you, Al!"

The Doctor, who had been taking a sip of his wine - some rare vintage from somewhere unpronounceable - choked and spouted a red gush through his nose and onto the pristine Irish linen table-cloth.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Maitre'd shudder and hold himself in place by sheer willpower. Mama Lema must spend extraordinary amunts of money here, and be one hell of a tipper...

I slapped the Doctor on the back. Under that worsted jacket his body was rock hard. Under my hand muscle rippled across broad shoulders. He wiped at his nose with his serviette and dabbed at his watery eyes.

He turned to me apologetically: "Greta, I'm afraid Mama Lema is sometimes a little too free with her opinions. I assure you I will never...EVER..."

I leaned in and wiped at a drop of wine at the corner of his mouth. "Never, ever? Really?" I giggled and pouted my lips invitingly, even as I felt my eyes beginning to cross. "That is a pity...It really is...Gosh! Hics! I was rather looking forward to that..."

Shamefully I must admit: That was when my head nodded and a wave of irresistible sleep washed over me.

OK! I passed out. I passed out on that table under the gleam of the crystal chandelier, with my cheek pressed to the exquisite genuinely antique Victorian cutlery, still clutching my Bohemian crystal Champagne flute.

The last time I had passed out, as I recall, had been at the Bull-Balls & Bells pub, after a drunken binge on salted peanuts, pork-pie, and vinegar chips. I can still taste the smell of stale beer-puke on my hair.